This is 30

You've been carrying around your fear like an appendage for a long while now. For 30 years. Making excuses for its validity and accommodations for its glaring intrusion in your life. You have been compromising each day, shaving away pieces of yourself to fulfill the perceived wishes of others because acceptance is neat and safe. Wearing a big smile, offering a hand, and carrying a plate of cookies so that everyone will let you in, approve of you. You have been afraid to stand, take up space, and demand what you want for your life.

You’re desperate to contain your emotions because their expression feels unruly. A shiny orb you aspire to. You feel good making other people happy. You hunger praise but the effects are fleeting, its incidence only fueling a need for more. You derive your worth from helping others, from saving. And in that endless pursuit, your truth is the last considered. You are relieved when others say you’re allowed to feel how you feel and it's ok to want what you want. You spend endless, valuable minutes, hours, even days in your head instead of in the world. In this, your 30th year, it’s time to actually consider precious girl, what you want your next years to hold.

What you want is to step boldly into a future that you decide and do not compromise on. And even if that future’s unbeknownst to you at the moment,  you’re committed to making room for the inquiry. You’re asking the questions, flexing those mental muscles, navigating conflict, embracing discomfort. Because the truth of the matter is you spent 30 years playing by the rules, when you could have been writing your own.

I’m not unique in the least. Human beings are riddled with fear, some can just conceal it far better than I can. Few like to talk much about fear; it’s not cute or Instagram worthy. What might set me apart is a willingness to stare at it, study it, befriend it, knowing it has been one of my greatest teachers. Fear has shielded me from the pains of disapproval, and of risk and longing. But 30 finally feels like the time that the benefits of aligning with my fear are not nearly as great as those of fear’s refusal.

I’ve been waiting for someone else to decide for me. My doting family, my husband, bosses, colleagues, books, therapists, podcasts, the list continues... I’m an open book, a sponge, all the platitudes to describe someone who is a little too honest, too feeling, and too pliable. I’ve always been looking outward for direction and I can see clearly now that it’s a woman I have been waiting for and her name is Francesca.

That was then, and this is 30.

How Social Media Mimics Intrusive Thinking

Social media has become engrained in the fabric of our culture and the way people interact, express themselves, and consume information. As a Community Manager, being immersed in social media is critically important to my job but sometimes detrimental to my sense of worth and peace. I am disheartened by the comparisons that inadvertently emerge as I tap and scroll, tap and scroll. 

As a child of the digital age and a person with Pure Obsessional OCD, I have observed abundant overlap between these two identities. Social media feeds are dictated by algorithms. Take Instagram for example: a Search tab so generously populates your feed with images and videos that might be of interest to you based on your behavior online. This is exactly how intrusive thoughts work. I have a thought that is ego dystonic, scares me and sets me off down the rabbit hole of mental compulsions in a futile attempt to disprove that thought. By seeking to avoid said intrusive thoughts, you guessed it, we affirm them. “What we resist, persists,” a counselor once told me. And what would have been diluted by simple acceptance, is amplified by the friction our brains set into motion. The same thing happens on Facebook and Instagram. I compare my relationship to the ever repetitive rhetoric of #CoupleGoals, tapping and reading, tapping and linking to yet another related piece of content. My Search tab is then inundated with images of perfectly tan, tone couples. Same goes for body image, professional success, activism, pie making abilities- you name it. Their (insert insecurity) must be more valid than mine, as they receive more engagement. It seems as if they are more worthy. I too portray aspirational parts of my life and work, but am troubled by the unrealistic expectation perpetuated.  When I fixate on perfection, then my need for it continues. The sense of urgency remains because I keep sounding the alarm and affirming that it is important. Conundrums scream, “pay attention to me,” and although it negatively impacts my life, I pay attention.

I consistently battle with these themes thereby guaranteeing they remain top of mind. If only I had the perspective to put down my weapons and coexist with the discomfort. If only I had enough confidence in myself, and my intrinsic worth as a person not to compare myself to the carefully curated version of another person. Not to feed into the trap of obsessional thinking. To combat the frenzy, I’ve set up some parameters for social media use.  I designate specific times of day to log on for work, not when I first wake up, and not when I lay down for the evening. I want my bed and that time to be a place of gratitude, not comparison. Same goes for uncontrollable worry. I set certain periods to utter my fears and intrusions out loud, when no one is around, and I force myself to sit with them. I cannot try to disprove them and they eventually lose their weight.

In real life, if a conversation isn’t going anywhere you stop talking and part ways.  On the internet there is no concrete out as the information is always available, and the behavior is tracked via algorithms outside of our awareness. When your OCD brain latches onto an irreconcilable fear, you can’t excuse yourself, you just endure it and the suffering continues. My goal will always be to reside peacefully in my skin and circumstances, to realize the fallacies at play in my mind, and reconcile with them; the cycle is not readily overcome though. Since I cannot separate from my disorderly brain, I can always log out of the Instagram app for a brief hiatus. Maybe they are one in the same. 

Pie Crust Cookies and the Other OCD

When I was around eight years old, I sat in the office of my elementary school counselor's office and he told me I was trying to force adult files into my child-sized filing cabinet. While it wasn't a technical explanation or diagnosis, it gave me a greater understanding of what was happening in my head. I could not sort through complicated concepts without obsessing over their implications. I was fixated on nightmarish topics of harm, violence, and imprudence seemingly all the time. Why should an eight year old be burdened with this material, I often wondered. I cried, and cried often. I was longing to make it through the day unimpeded by what was happening in the confines of my mind, but somehow the fear always overcame me. Fear of what could happen to me, what could happen to loved ones, fear of what harm people are capable of. Eventually they called it OCD. Who would have thought? 

Pure obsessional OCD is rather obscure, marked by intrusive imagery and mental obsessions not accompanied by the physical compulsions that shape the understanding most have of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. While the content matter of the thought patterns may vary from person to person, recurring topics of harm, religious blasphemy, loss of control, impropriety, sexuality, and anything that the person finds reprehensible, dirty, or “bad” are common. Like a record on a loop, it plays on and on, anxiety growing with each rotation. The doubt is pervasive. Doubting one's character, intentions, goodness, and worthiness are common. A cloud of irrational fears mercilessly feasts on your vulnerabilities. The song just keeps playing. 

Research shows that pure O is so anxiety provoking because individuals who have the condition are among the least likely to act on the thoughts they experience. These individuals are gentle and kind, which is why the subject matter of intrusions is so repugnant and bothersome. Externally, there are few indicators of Pure Obsessional OCD; it's quite invisible. My mother always tells me I look like I am immersed in thought, my brow furrowed in concern. As a society, we rely on what people reveal about their conditions, and thus much goes undisclosed. I think people rarely talk about Pure O because it is embarrassing and stigmatized. There is a level of shame and guilt associated with having thoughts of this kind. Therapists call it thought-reality fusion, or believing these fleeting thoughts mean you will do something bad, act out, hurt another person. Rest assured, it is an anxiety disorder and not a matter of impulse control. While I cannot speak for all, the way I find solace from the intrusions is with a healthy dose of distraction, physical activity, repetitive mantras, and cognitive behavioral therapy. From experience, I have seen that the worst habit is engaging with or trying to suppress the thoughts; suppression does not readily happen. Tell yourself not to think of something and believe me, it is sure to be the only thing on your mind. 

Sometimes I feel as if I burden those closest to me because I crave reassurance to explain away the dissonance in my mind. I ask if "everything is ok" and I ask them often, embarrassingly often. Sometimes they enable me and answer, yes, that "everything is ok". They see how desperately I need them to say just that. Other times they force me to rely on myself, to embrace the discomfort, to reside with what frightens me most, which in the long run is more helpful. Regardless, I've come to realize that nothing is ever really ok, and that in and of itself, is well, ok.

To Prepare Savory Pie Crust Cookies:

• Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. 
• Prepare one batch of your favorite pie crust. Store-bought works just fine as well. Roll out your crust to roughly 1/4 inch thick. Using your favorite cookie cutters, cut out desired shapes and sizes. Place on a greased cookie sheet.
• Meanwhile, combine 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, 1/4 cup fresh chopped parsley, salt and pepper to taste.
• Brush your pie crust cutouts with egg wash. (I typically beat one egg and combine with 2 tablespoons of water.)
• Gently press cheese and parsley mixture onto each cookie until generously covered. Bake for 12 minutes or until crisp and golden. 
• Serve with a dipping bowl of marinara sauce. 

Anxious

She is a vicious little SOB. Anxiety that is. Unwavering in her pursuit to knock you down and make you feel small. She feasts on your insecurities and takes great joy in breaking you until the web of rushing concepts that used to be your brain is exhausted, irrational and dismayed. At its core, anxiety is fear, or at least I think she is. A fear of something we may not even be able to identify. A fear of not being good enough, a fear of not loving yourself, or not being worthy of others' love. A fear that you're squandering away this one special life that you have been given because your mind is preventing you from any productive action. You're immobilized. A numbing feeling sets in, as if you're broken but not necessarily sure how to remedy said brokenness. 

You want to find the right reassurance, the perfect string of consoling words, a helping hand or some sense of tangible progress. You all too quickly forget that these things are already within you. Still, it's difficult to make peace with the disarray, to dance in the storm, to have patience. The perspective you have, in abundance. "This doesn't feel right. These feelings are not representative of my true sentiments. This isn't how I want to be spending my time." The tears well up in your eyes and you silently count your breaths, willing the sobs to stay away. There are brave souls fighting terminal conditions, children starving, men and women fighting overseas, you say. These are true burdens, to try to remind yourself of perspective. These circumstances warrant tears, and yet the brave endure. Worsening feelings of guilt set in because the absolute logic is no match for your buzzing frenzy of a brain. 

What is wrong with me? I am stronger than this. At times, counting helps; other times it's futile. Someone you love with the best of intentions tells you to "suck it up" or to be tougher. Grow a thicker skin they say. Shake it off. Rationally, you understand, this is not necessary behavior. Emotionally, it is unyielding. The logic falls to the wayside and the feelings of helplessness rush in to fill the voids where your confidence and reasoning should reside. "I'll get you my pretty", she says. Anxiety that is. 

The right combination of reasoning, exercise, eating well, rest, and distraction eventually send her back to reside in her miserable place. She is dormant at least for now, until she decides to feast again on your vulnerabilities. To blow them out of proportion, to grab hold of your mind. To tug you lower. And when she comes next, I will be a little more prepared, unwavering in my pursuit. 

Apples to Apples

Each person is given their own set of circumstances, habits, desires and reserves of strength. We react differently, carry burdens uniquely, and look at the world with a perspective solely ours. Commonalities are prevalent, sure, but at the most fundamental layer of our composition, each person is one of a kind.  While I'd rather report that I am impervious to the feelings of longing, uncertainty or envy, it is not so. The questions abound...

“Did I make you proud?
Are my thighs too big?
Why don’t we hold hands like they do?
If only I had ...
I shouldn’t eat this cookie, but I want to eat this cookie. What will she think if I eat this cookie?
Why have we lost touch?
What’s the point of it all?”

 The pattern is seemingly endless, the mind a powerful engine that will not stop revving. Falling deeply, unchecked and alone with our thoughts we churn. Speaking of churning, now I want ice cream. Maybe later, first let me get this out. Over time I have realized that comparing is futile and there are no absolutes. It's never apples to apples. People aren't fruit. 

Maybe the ruminating is a bi-product of struggling with a compulsive need for evenness, and there looks to be so little today. But whether a prince or a pauper and despite the stark gaps in culture, each is only counted once by the Census Bureau. A sobering fact for any who ever thought his or her life was worth more than the next. 

Each day I make a vow to try, yes try, to never fixate on what is lacking so much so that I overlook the grace that is already around me, in abundance. My hands are not your hands. Happiness and self worth for me does not detract from the happiness and worth of another. I look at it like a pie - and there are plenty of slices to go around. 

Oh wait, did you say pie?

To prepare, fix your homemade crust or use a favorite pre-made variation. My utmost favorite is this recipe from Sweet Paul Magazine. It comes together effortlessly in a stand mixer. The apple filling is made of 3 Granny Smith apples, chopped to a small dice. Toss with 1 tablespoon fresh squeezed lemon juice, and cinnamon and sugar to taste. Nanny never measures. She says you have to feel it. So feel and taste, feel and taste. Cook your apples along with1/2 teaspoon vanilla and two tablespoons of water over medium heat, stirring often until tender. The consistency should be comparable to a chunky apple sauce.

Meanwhile, crisp up some chopped bacon in a skillet. Once desired crispiness, remove to a paper towel to drain excess fat. Let apples and bacon cool while you roll out your dough. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Roll out the dough to 1/8 inch thick on a floured surface. Cut into desired shapes; here I used 2 by 2 squares. Arrange equal sized bottoms and tops on a baking sheet lined with parchment. Spoon a teaspoon of apple filling onto the center of your bottom. Seal the pie with a rub of water around the edges. Crimp with a fork. Coat the top of each pie with a light coating of egg wash. Bake for 20 minutes or until golden. 

Once cool, dip each pie into glaze made of 3/4 cup confectioner's sugar and 1 tablespoon liquid. I've used milk, but lemon juice works as well. Top with crisped bacon bits.